


The Door of Night

by bel_e_muir



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Dark Magic, Gen, Haradrim - Freeform, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-25
Updated: 2015-11-12
Packaged: 2018-04-17 05:53:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4654881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bel_e_muir/pseuds/bel_e_muir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thranduil has always been considered less wise and less powerful than the other Elven rulers. Now, after the War of the Ring, Eryn Lasgalen is the only Elven kingdom left in Middle-Earth. The Shadow is rising in the East in the form of the Haradwaith Empire. An unexpected gift will put on trial Thranduil's sense of duty. Will he destroy, or heal the world?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> English is not my native language - for all the mistakes I apologize in advance.

There has been no Ring of Power for Thranduil, the great Elvenking.

Nenya, Ring of Adamant, had been wielded by Galadriel and had protected the woods of Lothlorien. Vilya, Ring of Firmament, had been a tremendous help for Elrond by enhancing his healing ability as well as giving him some power over the elements.The Red Ring of Fire, Narya, had been given to Círdan, Lord of the Havens, who had given it to Mithrandir in return. Why one of the Elven Rings had ended in the hands of a Maia, Thranduil did not know.

Of all leaders of the Elven nations only he has been ring-less. Weren’t Mirkwood’s needs for protection as great, or even greater, than the other lands’? Silvan Elves has always been seen as low-born, less wise than their Sindar or Noldor brethren. Even though Thranduil himself was of Sindar descent, his people were not. Did that make them expendable, less worth of protection from the ever growing darkness?

And people wondered why Thranduil decided to not concern himself with the fate of the other lands. Have anyone ever really cared for Mirkwood Elves? No. So why should they care for others?

After the War of the Ring Thranduil had been observing with growing distaste how Elrond and Galadriel had begun to lose power over their respective lands. The Elves had started to migrate to west en masse, leaving Imladris and Lothlorien depopulated, a pitiful shade of the once great Elven kingdoms – and their leaders had done nothing to stop them. Had Elrond and Galadriel really became so dependent from the Rings’ powers so that losing them meant losing the will to fight, to live?

Only the Elves of Eryn Lasgalen had prevailed. And although technically they _could_ sail west, they had chosen not to. The War of the Ring hadn’t changed anything for them: the Middle Earth has been their home, for better and for worse, even if it meant fading to oblivion over the span of a millennium.

And yet, the doubt has lingered in Elvenking’s mind. Would him owning a Ring of Power have made a change in the final outcome of the war?

The Age of Men has been nothing but disappointing so far. After the death of King Elessar and coronation of his son, Eldarion, the Reunited Kingdoms of Gondor and Arnor had fell apart, the lands east to the Misty Mountains had been conquered by the united forces of Khand, Harad and Umbar. The Black Númenóreans had become the new rulers of Men and their blood was as old and powerful as the blood of King Elessar was.

Now it was the year 142 of the Fourth Age of the Sun as herald of the Haradwaith Empire came to Eryn Lasgalen to council.

Finally, a nation sensible enough to recognize Thranduil as a force to be reckoned with!

“I am Ulbar, the Mouth of the Empire. Blessings of the Flame Imperishable to you and your subjects, great king of the Elves,” said the emissary, standing proud in Thranduil’s throne chamber.

The king bowed his head slightly in acknowledgement.

“I thank you for your blessing. Although it surprises me to hear such words coming from the mouth of the Dark Practitioner,” he said mildly, vaguely interested. The Haradwaith Empire had resurrected the Dark Cult (also known as Shadow Cult) and the ruling dynasty has been openly worshipping Morgoth the fallen Vala ever since.

“Melkor the Great has always desired and admired the Secret Flame, the divine power of creation,” Ulbar answered without missing a beat. “It is the Holy Emperor’s wish to point the similarities between our people.”

“What about the differences?” asked Thranduil evenly. “You worship Melkor, who has hated the Eldar race from the very first moment we had appeared on this world. And you are mortal, we are not.”

“I beg your forgiveness, great king, but while it is true that we are mortal, this age belongs to us. Our empire grows and thrives, while Eryn Lasgalen is the last elven stronghold left in the Middle Earth. You are alone, king Thranduil, and you know it,” the emissary’s voice was like steel clothed in silk.

Thranduil’s voice in return was the bare steel, no silk whatsoever, “Is that a threat, Haradrim?”

“No, great king. I was send here by my Emperor not to threaten you, but to endow you with a gift.”

“I have no need for riches,” said Thranduil dismissively.

“I assure you, this gift you _will_ like,” countered Ulbar. “The Holy Emperor of the Haradwaith Empire, the Divine Sun and the Blessed Moon of the race of Men, is bestowing upon you the magic grimoire of Ar-Pharazôn, the Golden King of Anadûnê.” The emissary gestured to his servants, who brought forth a small chest, adorned with gold and precious stones.

Thranduil took the chest, startled. If It was true… If it wasn’t a fake…

Ar-Pharazôn had been the greatest and the most ambitious king the Edain race has ever had. He had successfully marched on Mordor and had imprisoned the Dark Lord Sauron himself. He had also been the _last_ king of Númenor, as his decision to attack Valinor and demand the gift of immortality had caused the ire of Eru Ilúvatar who had sunken the island under the sea.

There was nothing left of the Ar-Pharazôn’s legacy, at least that’s what Thranduil thought. The few survivors who had managed to escape the catastrophe had taken some precious artifacts with them, like _Palantiri_ or the fruit of the White Tree, but all worldly possessions of the Golden King were rumored to be lost, until now.

“That is… interesting, to say the least, but what would I do with a magic grimoire? And what would the Emperor expect of me in return?” he asked carefully, trying not to express his eagerness.

“My Lord is most gracious ruler and what he gives, he gives without any strings attached. If you want it, the grimoire is yours to read and to use in whatever manner you deem appropriate,” answered Ulbar. “All my Lord asks of you is to keep your mind open. After all, the history is only ever written by the victors, or in Númenor’s case, the survivors.”

“Then please convey the Emperor my thanks. You are welcome to stay in Eryn Lasgalen as long as you want to before you travel back to the Empire,” Thranduil offered.

“That will not be necessary, great king. I would not risk your displeasure as I am afraid that some of the rites I need to perform regularly would offend your people,” said the emissary, bowing apologetically.

“You mean the Dark Cult rites?” asked Thranduil, his interest peaked against his better judgement. “I don’t know much about them, although rumor says they involve human sacrifice, bloodshed and murder.”

“That is just a hateful slander that contorts the true meaning of our religion. Most of the rituals we perform require a willingness of the participant. We shed our blood and sacrifice our lives willingly for the Darkness Eternal,” explained Ulbar.

“Indeed,” the Elvenking murmured. “Then please feel welcome to stay, at least for a couple of days. It would be enlightening to learn more about the traditions of your people.”

If Ulbar was surprised by his lack of scorn towards the Shadow Cult, he didn’t show it.

“The feeling is mutual, king Thranduil. I thank you for your hospitality,” the emissary bowed low and exited the chamber followed by his servants.

Thranduil nodded at his seneschal Galion to take care of the guests.

He was deep in thoughts when he was approached by his Captain of Guard, Tauriel, “May I ask a question, My Lord?”

In the last couple of centuries Tauriel had become a confidant of his, or as close to one as he allowed. She was a level-headed, intelligent Elf, save from the matters of a heart. But in the matters of war he trusted her implicitly.

“You may, Tauriel.”

“Why are you so accommodating to these Men, My Lord? They are as Dark as they come.”

“Dark they may be but I will not make them our enemies unless I have to. The Harad Empire is the leading power of this age, it would not be wise to annoy the Emperor needlessly. Those Men have done nothing to deserve our enmity so far,” explained Thranduil.

“But they worship Morgoth!” exclaimed Taurier incredulously.

“And yet they are willing to part with Ar-Pharazôn’s belongings. I still need to decipher why the Emperor would give me this grimoire at all. His motives may be sinister, no matter how benign they appear at the first glance,” he said as he looked at the chest lying innocently at his lap. “If it is a trap, I need to know.”

* * *

This evening he sent all his servants away. He sat alone in his private chambers, hands shaking as they slowly opened the chest. Inside there was an old book with rich, leather binding. He carefully took the book out and opened it tentatively.

_The Most Potent Magics of Arda by Pharazôn the Magician_

For a moment, Thranduil considered chucking the grimoire away and never looking at it again. He has always been a warrior, a mighty elven warlord, but a sorcerer he was not. That was Galadriel’s forte. What was he doing, reading the dreaded book of the forbidden magic arts? But curiosity won over the caution and soon he was engrossed in the reading.

_Standing before the Darkness Eternal I am no lord, no king, no ruler. I am the servant of the Shadow and thus I will not add the royal Ar- before my name. I am only Pharazôn as I have always been since my birth on this wretched earth. I find myself small and insignificant comparing to the vast greatness of the Shadow, and I am ever its willing and dutiful servant._

_I write this words for my future Heir to read and to obey, though no compulsion will be delivered through this tome. Only willing sacrifice will finalize the deed I started here, at the edge of the world. The Undying Lands are my final destination and I know in my heart of hearts that this voyage will not end well._

_Oh, Sauron promised me immortality and divine power with this golden tongue of his but I am no fool. The Ban of the Valar says that no Man can travel to Valinor and it feels like a bind upon my soul. Disobeying the Ban will be my undoing and this bitter knowledge weighs upon me heavily. But disobey I must or all I have done, all the blood that I have shed will be in vain._

_Tomorrow I will sail to Aman and I expect to be slain for this deed. Furthermore, I predict that all my people are going to be punished with me. This is the ultimate sacrifice. I am going to sacrifice the whole Númenor so that my Heir can fulfil the destiny written well before the Sun and the Moon._

_It is said that the Final Battle, Dagor Dagorath, will happen when Vala Melkor breaks the Door of Night. It is both humbling and terrifying that I, the low servant of the Darkness Eternal, had actually found the way to break the binds of the Great Void put upon my Lord and Master. It will not happen in a century or even in a millennium. But happen it will and the duty to aid Melkor the Great falls to my Heir._

_If in doubt, know this: my Heir will not be of my blood. He will not even be of the Race of Men. I have seen him in my dreams, the Heir of my soul: he will be one of the Eldar, shunned and underestimated, hidden in the Shadows of his abode. His duty will be to his land and his subjects only, he will serve neither Valar nor Maiar. He will wear a crown but he will be considered lesser in wisdom and power by others. No Ring will adorn his fingers and no one’s orders will he take but his own._

_To you, my Heir in everything but blood, I say: you are the Key to the Door of Night that binds my Lord in the Void. I have sacrificed everything I have ever held dear so there will be a power for you to use to sever the bindings of the time itself. In my dreams I have seen that you will be the deciding factor in creating the Arda Remade. But remember this: you must serve no Vala, you must have no master but yourself._

_You must travel through time and space to make all the changes needed so that Dagor Dagorath ends as you wills it. My Lord Melkor will walk through Arda again, but you will be his bind in this world and you shall decide when and where will he be unleashed upon the world. Choose wisely, my Heir, for you hold the world’s fate in your hands._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> English is not my native language - for all the mistakes I apologize in advance.

_You must travel through time and space to make all the changes needed so that Dagor Dagorath ends as you wills it. My Lord Melkor will walk through Arda again, but you will be his bind in this world and you shall decide when and where will he be unleashed upon the world. Choose wisely, my Heir, for you hold the world’s fate in your hands._

The tome fell from Thranduil's unresponsive fingers to his lap. His thoughts were in disarray because of the first few pages he read in Ar-Pharazôn's magic grimoire and it was only the beginning!

Was he supposed to belive that he was the spiritual heir to the Dark Númenórean king? That he was destined to release the greatest evil Arda has ever known and thus cause the prophesied end of the world? The Harad's Emperor must believe it, otherwise he would not part with a rare artifact so easily and without any strings attached.

Thranduil could honestly say that the Darkness was never something he had sought or desired, at least until now. But centuries of bitterness and discontent apparently had left a trace that could be easily exploited by a few words of flattery and promises of greatness. He had always wanted to matter, he desired awe and recognition for his deeds. None of this had ever happened and it left a festering wound in his heart. Was he truly that mediocre a king that in all history books he was only ever mentioned in passing, as an afterthought?

If Ar-Pharazôn's prediction was true, if Thranduil would be able to travel through time than maybe the history could be changed to his satisfaction? Maybe he could save his father in the Battle of Dagorlad? Or make sure Isildur destroyed the One Ring which Elrond had failed to do? He would make Greenwood the Great, as Mirkwood had once been called, the mightiest Elven kingdom in the Middle Earth. He would be revered and respected and none of the awful Third-Age mess need ever happen.

But at what price? Could he embrace the Darkness for the advantages it offered and not to fall in its trap? The grimoire said that Ar-Pharazôn's heir would be the one to open the Door of Night and release the Dark Lord Morgoth from the Void he was imprisoned in. Sauron was only a lesser being comparing to Morgoth and had once been his most trusted servant. Was destroying a servant worth the danger of releasing his master? Thranduil couldn't help but shudder at the thought of a being darker and crueler than Sauron himself.

With a sigh he put the book away. These musings of his were useless. He didn't even know if the prophecy truly spoke of him and not someone else. Who knows, maybe the whole thing was false and Ar-Pharazôn had been simply delusional?

He stood up, put on a light robe and left his chambers, still troubled. He walked through the quiet halls of his kingdom and tried to calm his heart. His feet took him to the gardens which had been his late wife's pride. He always came here when he wanted to clear his mind, this evening was no different.

He didn't know how long he just stood there, deep in thoughts. Doubts and hopes warred in him, equal in strength. The sun had hidden beneath the horizon when he finally decided to go back to his rooms. To his surprise, his guest was waiting for him just outside of the gardens.

“I hope you didn't wait for me too long, ambassador.”

“Not at all. The guard said you sought rest in the gardens and I didn't want to disturb your peace,” said Ulbar. “I actually came here with an offer, great king.”

“Indeed?” asked Thranduil, intrigued.

“I was about to perform a ritual my faith requires of me. I would like you to witness it,” the herald explained. “If nothing else, it should serve the purpose of resolving any doubts you may have about the Shadow Cult.”

A cold shudder went through Thranduil's back, he couldn't tell whether it was from fright or anticipation.

“Would I be required to participate in this ritual of yours?” he asked.

“Absolutely not! The holy rites are not for infidels,” Ulbar protested sternly. “Only those of true faith, the sworn servants of the Darkness Eternal are allowed to participate in our ceremonies.”

Thranduil felt relief that he needn't to be an active participant. But what shocked him to the core was that he also felt some... disappointment. Was he truly that eager to wallow in Darkness?

He let none of his inner turmoil appear on his face as he answered, “Then I would be delighted to just learn and observe.”

That seemed to satisfy Ulbar just fine. He led the Elvenking to the guest rooms and invited him in. Feeling like he was about to breach some kind of spiritual threshold, Thranduil hesitated. Ulbar looked at him questioningly.

“Could witnessing this ritual change me in any way?” asked the Elvenking.

The herald regarded him calculatingly.

“It cannot create a darkness in your soul, it can only wake what is already there, my lord,” he answered and opened the door invitingly.

Thranduil found himself succumbing to the temptation. He was never good at resisting them, anyway.

Ulbar's room was almost ascetic and Thranduil knew it was a new development. All the guest chambers were prepared to be leisurely comfortable, with silk sheets, lush carpets and silver adornments. This room was almost empty and it was obvious that it was done on purpose.

As if reading his mind, the ambassador explained, “A true servant of Darkness does not need comforts nor riches so I asked your seneschal to remove all the unnecessary items. Besides, I would rather not leave bloodstains on your carpets, great king,” added Ulbar wryly.

The tips of the Elvenking’s lips turned upwards, the only visible sign that he was amused.

“No, I would not be thrilled about seeing my carpets bloodstained, that I am sure,” he admitted. “May I sit, then, and watch?” he gestured to the empty wooden chair that was placed in the corner.

“Certainly, my lord. I only ask you to remain silent, any question you may have I will try to answer afterwards.”

“Agreed. By all means, proceed.”

While Ulbar had started the preparations the Elvenking observed him intently. The Southron was handsome, at least in the ways of mortal Men. He was tall, he had short coal black hair and tanned skin, though fairer than olive-skinned Easterlings, the desert-dwellers from the far East. The man moved with silent grace as he took out a bowl, a whip and a knife and put them all on the floor. Then he knelt before them, feet close, his torso proudly upright.

“I call to you, Everlasting Darkness. Receive my prayers with grace and allow my lesser blood to be sacrificed for your pleasure. I seek no glory, desire no honours, await no compensation. Take me and break me, twist me and destroy me, until I am no more.”

The Southron removed his shirt, revealing a scarred torso underneath. He picked up the wicked looking whip with several strands ended with metal tips then started to beat himself with it.

When the first blow landed, Thranduil was repulsed. Why was the man mutilating himself in such gruesome way? What was the point? He doubted the Darkness cared for it either way. But obviously he had missed something important, because Ulbar’s face was solemn and intense, and although a film of sweat had broken out on his forehead, the man looked almost at peace, showing nothing of the agony he must be going through.

After the ninth blow Ulbar stopped and bowed lowly to the ground, his skin touching the cold stone for a moment before straightening again.

“I call to you, Everlasting Darkness,” intoned the Southron again, his voice hoarse but firm. “Thank you for all the blessings you bestowed upon me, for the pain you brought me, for the strength you drained from me. This is my atonement for a life lived in the wretched Light. When my time comes, receive my mortal soul with mercy.”

This time Ulbar took the small dagger and made a deep gash on his left forearm. The blood trickled slowly to the stone bowl.

“With my blood and faith will I share, so I swear on my forefathers’ names.”

The Southron bowed one last time, then finally looked at the petrified Elvenking.

“It is done,” he croaked, putting the bloodied blade away.

Thranduil got up then knelt on the floor before the man, gently evaluating his wounds. They were nasty and deep enough to scar but not enough to cause serious injury. But seeing as Ulbar’s back was awfully scarred already he presumed that such whipping had been a regular occurrence.

“Why? Why would you do that to yourself?” the Elvenking asked incredulously.

“Because it is my heritage and my duty. Ever since the sinking of Anadûnê the Dark worshippers has been tasked with performing blood rites. So will it be, generation after generation, until the world crumbles and shatters.”

Looking into Ulbar’s ecstasy-filled eyes, Thranduil had a terrible epiphany. If these blood rites could really be traced back in time to the downfall of Númenor… If they were being performed ever since… Could they be an extension of sacrifices Ar-Pharazôn mentioned in his grimoire? Could it be that hundreds, thousands of Black Númenóreans have bled and suffered for years just to enhance the Heir’s power?

Thranduil’s power, if the grimoire was to be believed.

“I feel no magic in this rite, no power whatsoever. How can you be sure that the ritual is working?” he asked, his mind in turmoil.

Ulbar had seemed to hesitate for a moment before he answered, “Because you are not one of us. You are of Light, not of Shadow. But the power is here. Oh, it is here,” the man closed his eyes and seemed to soak in the Darkness only he seemed to perceive.

Suddenly Thranduil felt exhausted, the evening’s events finally catching up with him. He slowly stood up, feeling the weight of ages long gone by upon his shoulders.

“I hope you are allowed to treat these wounds?” he inquired.

Ulbar seemed to realise that their meeting was coming to an end.

“Yes, great king. I am going to call my servant after your leave.”

“Then I wish you a good night, ambassador.”

Just as he was going to open the door, Thranduil remembered something.

“What is the blood in the bowl needed for?” he asked.

“It is to be drunk, my lord, by my fellow Dark servants.”

The answer haunted the Elvenking long into the night.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Betaed by AngstyChaosMagicUser (thanks!), any mistakes left are mine.

_The blood_ _forcibly taken is different than the blood freely given. It tastes different and it gives the drinker a different kind of power. Although it is not recommended, the blood taken will give the Mage a huge burst of strength if only for a short time. Afterwards, the Mage will weaken considerably and will be even more vulnerable than before drinking the blood. After all, violence is a useful but unsophisticated tool. Magic-wise, it will crush one’s enemy with a strength of a mace but it will leave the Magic user exposed to a strike back._

_It should be said here that we, the Dark Practitioners, do not condone using torture and murder in the Magic rites. It leaves a sour taste in our mouth but more importantly, it stains our fëar, our immortal souls. It should not be done but for the direst of needs._

_The true power that once acquired cannot be taken away derive from the blood sacrificed consciously and willingly. To truly accept pain, loss, even death, is the greatest source of Magic I have encountered in my live. Oh, I searched for other ways in hope that I wouldn’t have to sacrifice myself and my people. It tears my apart to know that my men will suffer for the decision I made and although they would eagerly follow me to this world’s end, I wish they needn’t have to. But the search proved futile, there is no other way._

_The sheer magnitude of the rite I am going to perform is crippling me from the inside. So many things could go wrong! The key to success is to anger the Valar so much that they will be blinded by their rage. I need to be as insolent, audacious, and daring as I can. They have to be so enraged that their fury will cloud any possible thoughts of forgiveness. I don’t want to be forgiven. I want to be punished and punished severely. This is my sacrifice. Let them curse my name, let them destroy me and my people with me. With this judgement they will be sealing their own doom._

_The future looks bleak from where I stand but I know that in another age my words will be heard and headed. This is the legacy I leave to you, my future Heir._

The candle flickered one last time before dying out. Thranduil massaged his temples tiredly, trying to wish away his migraine. He had gotten no rest this night, nor any other night since he had been given the accursed book. What was in the grimoire that called to him so strongly?

For the last few days he had avoided his Haradrim guests, trying to avoid the temptation to learn more about the Shadow Cult. He felt strangely conflicted, as if Light and Darkness fought inside him with his soul as a prize.

With a sigh he stood up and changed his clothes to something appropriate for a political meeting. This behavior of his needed to stop, he wasn’t a lowborn to show his moods so openly. He was the King of the Woodland Realm, and it was a high time he started to act like one -no more avoiding everyone and brooding in his rooms like an ill-humored child.

When he arrived to the dining chamber the breakfast had already been served. He pretended not to notice the worried glances from both his Elves and the visiting Men. He took his usual seat, Tauriel on his right side and Ulbar on the left.

“Please forgive my absence of the last few days, ambassador. I was feeling slightly unwell,” offered Thranduil as a greeting.

“This is a relief and a pleasure to see you this morning, my lord,” answered Ulbar. “Forgive my insolence but you do look tired and weary. Is something troubling you, if I may ask?”

The Elvenking almost snorted. The Man had brought the accursed book to Thranduil’s kingdom, and he had the audacity to ask whether something was troubling him?

“No, do not apologize.” He waved his hand dismissively. “No need to worry on my account. A couple hours of rest and I will be my usual irritating self.”

Tauriel choked on a mouthful, and Thranduil asked with false innocence, “Are you alright, Captain?”

“Perfectly, my Lord,” she answered, blushing from embarrassment.

“Good.”

Thranduil hid the smallest of smiles behind a cup of juice. Suddenly he felt famished, like he hadn’t eaten for days, which had probably been the case. No matter, this could be easily remedied. He started to pile food on his plate, intent on regaining strength as quickly as possible.

Ulbar regarded him with open curiosity and then silently watched him throughout the entire meal. That did not bother Thranduil in the slightest. Let him watch.

Let them all watch.

* * *

That afternoon he returned to the gardens. The cave had been carved so that the ceiling was missing almost entirely, allowing the sunlight to lighten the room. It was the brightest place in his underground kingdom, and he had always loved it.

He wasn’t surprised when he had heard quiet Elven steps behind him.

“My King?”

“Yes, Feren? I presume our esteemed ambassador asked to see me?” he ventured a guess.

“He did, my King. He wants to join you in the gardens.”

“Let him,” he ordered without looking at the guard. “And let no one eavesdrop on our conversation, is that clear?”

“Yes, my King.”

He heard the steps retreating then the louder ones, the Man’s ones, could be heard.

“Is being bold a virtue among your people, ambassador?” asked Thranduil sharply, turning back to face the Southron.

The Man’s face showed an apprehension which had not been there before.

“Yes, as a matter of fact it is,” the herald answered slowly, as if treading on a thin ice. “Did I offend you in any way, great king? I assure you…”

Thranduil interrupted him impatiently, “Then I shall be bold with you, Haradrim. You gave me Ar‑Pharazôn’s grimoire on your Emperor’s orders. Did you receive any other order regarding my person? If you cannot share them than say so but do not. Lie. To. Me!” he hissed.

Ulbar blanched as if he was reminded for the first time that it was an immortal, powerful being he had been parleying with.

“I have sworn to obey you and be yours to use and to discard if you ever show the slightest leaning towards the Dark Cult,” the herald answered stiffly.

“And you haven’t said anything before because…?” prompted Thranduil.

“Because I was worried you would misuse me had you known you have the right to do so,” admitted Ulbar and ducked his head in shame.

Thranduil said nothing as he stared at the Man. He suspected something of that ilk but to actually hear it aloud? It shocked him to the core.

The deduction had been easy to make once he had connected all the dots. The Emperor had wanted Thranduil to have Ar-Pharazôn’s grimoire which meant he must have read it at some point. Otherwise how could he have known that the presumed Golden King’s Heir is an Elven king? Or this particular Elvenking, to be precise.

And since the Emperor had known who Thranduil was destined to be then it’s a logical conclusion that the Emperor would have wanted to assure that Ar-Pharazôn’s dream was fulfilled – hence sending his henchmen to convert Thranduil to the Empire’s religion. The Emperor was a zealot, he would gladly sacrifice the whole world if it meant helping his beloved Master, the Dark Lord Morgoth.

Thranduil once again focused on the Man before him.

“Ulbar, what have I done to inspire such distrust from you?” he asked quietly.

The herald looked at him with apprehension.

“I haven’t got the best experiences with your race, my Lord,” Ulbar admitted, and this time, ‘my lord’ hadn’t been used as a figure of speech the diplomacy required of him but an actual title.

Thranduil smiled, trying to look benign.

“I haven’t got the best experiences with the race of Men as well, so it seems we will both have to prove the other wrong in this regard.”

The Man didn’t seem to be entirely convinced by that, but he relaxed the tiniest bit.

“What will you do with me then, my Lord, now that you know of my vow?”

Thranduil’s smile turned sinister, his white teeth showing. The stiffening of the herald’s body proved that the change was visible and had been correctly interpreted.

“Now, my dear servant, I intend you to teach me all the Dark practices you can think of.”

Never in his long life had the Elvenking seen someone so flabbergasted.

“But to perform the Dark rites you would have to become a Dark practitioner! And you are a Light being!” exclaimed the Man.

“Who said I cannot be both?”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My beta is quite busy at the moment, so this chapter has not been betaed yet.  
> For any mistakes I apologise in advance.

_3 years later_

Shadows danced on the stone walls of the bathing caves, the torches flickering in the faint wind of early autumn. The air was pungent with the smell of warm earth, fallen leaves and mushrooms, the aroma both fresh and heavy.

The Elvenking of the Woodland Realm bathed alone. Some Elf on duty guarded the caves’ entry but inside Thranduil was thankfully left alone. He wetted the bathing cloth and started to cleanse himself, wondering at the changes his decision to embrace the Darkness had brought to his body and mind.

The changes of the body were more obvious, being the visible part of the Change. His back, torso and abdomen were littered with scars of wide variety: there were cuts, burns and stabs, each of them precise and intentionally inflicted. His arms were painted with black tattoos which throbbed with sheer power. Even now, calm and relaxed as he was, he could feel the magic pulsing, twisting and vibrating just under his skin, begging to be released. 

In the first weeks after the Change he had been badly tempted to use the new powers, the desire to release the storm raging inside him slowly driving him mad. For a short time he had become a slave to his emotions, reacting with fury and violence at the slightest offence, his patience non-existent and mercy unobtainable. It had been a trial of his will-power which he had failed spectacularly.

Only Ulbar had recognized the signs of power sickness for what they were and had reacted accordingly. The Southron had ordered Thranduil to be completely secluded until he said otherwise and Galion, terrified by the changes in his usual moody but otherwise gracious ruler, had acceded to Man’s wishes. 

Thranduil had raged when one morning he had found his chambers closed and guarded, he had demolished his rooms as well as had seriously damaged the doors, to no avail. Only after a couple of days without food and water he had finally succumbed to fatigue, but even in his bed his body had been wrecked with tremors, the magic raging wildly in his veins. The day after Thranduil had collapsed from exhaustion Ulbar had come to his rooms and had started to teach him how to master the new powers which had wreaked havoc on his body and mind.

The crudest and easiest way to resist the Dark magic’s allure was to inflict pain intense enough to provide sufficient distraction. Many of the scars Thranduil bore he had gained these first few months when he had yet to master more sophisticated methods, like tattoo-sealing or spirit walking. His vanity suffered much from such disfigurement but he didn’t regret his decision.

He had read  Ar-Pharazôn ’s grimoire twice and had memorized each and every ritual and magic spell he had access to, he even had consulted Ulbar on many a night on the dangers of using Dark magic and ways to counter them. Slowly and steadily his power had been growing and now, three years later, Thranduil was getting impatient. He felt ready and well-prepared to try to change the fate of the Middle-Earth.

The question was: did he wanted to?

Sauron had been defeated, after all, his armies scattered and in disarray. And while other Elven kingdoms had withered and had faded to nothingness, Eryn Lasgalen has thrived as never before. Why, in Eru’s name, would he want to change this happy ever after?

Thranduil sighed and finished bathing. He had some serious thinking to do.

* * *

“Is something bothering you, my Lord?” asked Tauriel this evening in his office when she finished giving her report on the borders’ defences. “Please forgive my prying, but you seem awfully absentminded as of late.”

Thranduil hummed in response, his long fingers drumming on the desk while he considered how much to tell her. 

“What would you do if you had the power to change the past, but with no guarantee it would change the events for the better and not for the worst?” he asked finally.

Tauriel looked at him, amazed.

“If I had such power, my Lord, I would use it in a heartbeat”, she answered breathlessly.

“Why? Would you not hesitate, would you not doubt yourself? Are our selfish desires that important that we are allowed to condemn the whole world to fulfil them?”

The Captain’s eyes clouded with either pain or memories. Painful memories, most likely.

“Are not our whole lives selfish? We kill to defend our homes and families and in our pride we call it honourable and just. Is there a difference between preventing a loved one’s death and turning back time to do just the same?”

She did not say whom she would have saved given the means to do so, but then, she didn’t need to. Thranduil recalled the young dwarven prince she had lost centuries ago well enough not to need any reminders. He knew Tauriel had never loved again, her heart still torn and bleeding even after all those years. 

“Thank you, Captain. Your help is appreciated,” he assured her.

She bowed slightly, then asked: “If I may have a question, my Lord?”

He nodded at her to continue.

“It is not in your nature to wonder about what-ifs so your question is not purely theoretical, is it? Is this the reason you kept Ulbar close for such a long time? We all wondered what did he do to gain your confidence but we dared not to ask.”

“You are awfully perceptive for someone so young. I shudder to think how clever could you become in another thousand years,” said Thranduil wryly. “Yes, Ulbar is helping me in this... endeavour of mine. But I still doubt myself. The changes I intend to make will have far-reaching consequences. Will I dare to risk changing our fate?”

“What is fate but the sum of our deeds?” asked Tauriel philosophically. “My Lord, we are the children of Ilúvatar but we did not witness Ainulindalë when the world itself was created. Even the discord which Morgoth wove into the Music became a part of creation. We cannot judge what is meant to be, we can only live our lives and hope for the best.”

“Again, the wisdom of your words in undeniable,” said Thranduil. “How can I thank you for your advice?”

The look Tauriel gave him was full of deep-buried sorrow.

“I can only beg you to save one reckless, bothersome dwarf, my Lord,” with these words she left, leaving the Elvenking deep in thoughts. Could this be that simple? Love and family above all else?

He started to wonder what was wrong with the world he now lived in. While Sauron had been defeated, it seemed like nothing had really changed. The Elves continued to fade and were leaving these shores, even Legolas, his only son, had left him to sail west. It was a decision Thranduil couldn’t understand. Why bother fighting for Middle Earth only to abandon it shortly after? What was the point of such a fight?

Only now did he realise what irritated him the most: the detached, unconcerned attitude of the Elves from the other kingdoms. Elrond and Galadriel had let the dominion of Men over Middle-Earth take place almost without a fight, seeing as they themselves had done nothing to re-establish the position of their race. The Elves are the Firstborn, they had fought with Dragons and Balrogs in the ages past! Why were they mere shadows of the once proud, powerful race?

A plan slowly forming in his mind, Thranduil began to plot. 

* * *

The next day he decided to meet with Ulbar in the gardens, a reminiscence of the evening three years ago, when he had decided to become a Dark Practitioner.

The Man had been a stern but patient teacher and strange as it may seem, Thranduil felt that some kind of bond had resulted from these teachings. Ulbar had seen him at his worst: mad with power sickness, overcome with fury and bloodlust, and later bleeding and broken. It was not so much different from the bonds wrought on the battlefield – one cannot fight beside other warrior and not form some kind of kinship. Becoming a Dark Practitioner had been one hell of a battle and the Elvenking decided to let the Man know he appreciated his aid.

“It is good to see you, my friend,” he greeted the Southron, for the first time naming him such.

Ulbar was not impressed: “How am I your friend, my Lord? Once I was just an ambassador from a foreign country, than I became your servant as well as teacher of all things Dark. The ties of duty and faith bind me to you but not those of true friendship. Never in this world would I name an Elf my friend.”

The Elvenking looked at the Man, surprised by such brutal honesty: “I have never asked you what happened in the past to kindle such hatred towards my race in you.”

“It is not important now, my Lord. I will do my duty and serve you to the best of my abilities until you release me. You need not to worry about my past experiences influencing me,” the Southron assured stiffly.

“And yet they _are_ influencing you,” countered Thranduil. “You deny me your friendship because of whatever happened in the past. Ulbar, I do not ask this to cause you pain, but because I need to understand. What happened to you?”

Being asked so directly, Ulbar wasn’t so keen on refusing to say. He sighed tiredly and his shoulders slumped, but he answered nonetheless: “In the war between the Haradwaith Empire and the Reunited Kingdom the Elves of Rivendell sided with the latter. They captured me, they tortured me and left me to die. Despite their best efforts I managed to survive. I have hated them ever since.”

Thranduil asked: “You are no stranger to pain, I have witnessed it many times now. How could torture influence you so much?”

The Man looked at him with ire: "I was sixteen at that time and not yet a Dark Practitioner, much less someone used to pain!” he spat. “My very first scars were made by their hands! It was war – I would understand if they killed me on spot, I was their enemy and they were mine. But to torture a boy? What kind of dishonourable creature does that? And they weren’t even torturing me for information! They asked no questions, they were only glad that they had someone to inflict pain on!”

The usually collected Man was literally shaking from anger, hatred and the remembered pain. No matter how incredulous the story may have seemed, Thranduil had no choice but to believe it. No one, no matter how skilled in the matters of subterfuge and deception, could fake such strong emotions so well.

“Very well. I can see that being here, amongst my people, is neither fair nor kind to you. Hear me then: I, Thranduil, King of the last Elven Realm in Middle-Earth, release you from any ties to me and mine, be they ties of blood or honour. You have broken no oath, betrayed no promise, and you are free to leave my Kingdom in peace. For your help I swear to always repay in kind, in this world or another, in times past and present, this I swear as the Golden King’s Heir, the destined Key to the Door of Night.”

At the beginning of Thranduil’s speech Ulbar’s face showed an joyous astonishment, but hearing Elvenking’s other titles – taken from  Ar-Pharazôn ’s grimoire – it turned as white as a sheet.

“Do not use the titles you have no right to!”, the Man hissed.

It was Thranduil’s turn to be confused: “No right? What are you talking about? Was this not your mission to present me with  Ar-Pharazôn ’s grimoire so that I could learn about my destiny?”

Ulbar’s face crumbled as he came to a terrible realisation. He fell to his knees and begged: “Master, please believe me, I did not know. No one but the Holy Emperor and his royal family were allowed to read the grimoire. O sweet Darkness, what have I done?”

It was almost painful for the Elvenking to see him so distraught. “Ulbar, stop it,” Thranduil said, trying to make head or tail of the situation. “I thought me becoming the Dark Practitioner and learning the Dark Magic was your Emperor’s plan all along. Why else would he give me the book that was your people legacy for centuries if not for the greater gain, meaning convincing me to fulfil  Ar‑Pharazôn ’s predictions?”

The Man was still shaking like a leaf but he tried to reign in his emotions with visible strain: “Master, I beg your forgiveness. I was never told the reason behind my journey here or why I was ordered to be your servant if you ever showed an inclination to join the Shadow Cult. I thought it was my punishment, that I have done something to deserve the Holy Emperor’s anger and this was my penance. The Emperor knew how the Elves had hurt me in the past, I thought it just a cruel punishment… I would never act so headstrong had I known I owe you my allegiance. I shamed myself and I can only beg your mercy.”

While Ulbar’s repentance was painfully sincere, Thranduil liked him better when the Man was his usual proud, collected self. “Get up,” he ordered more sharply than he intended. “I do not need a snivelling slave but a companion worth my trust and attention. Now, would you like to leave Eryn Lasgalen now that you are free to do so? Nothing binds you to me now.”

The Man got up slowly. “I am disgraced, Master,” he admitted. “I do not deserve to be in your presence any longer.”

It took all of the Thranduil’s restraint not to scream in exasperation. “I did not ask what you deserve but where your desires lie,” he explained, trying to reign in his temper. “Earlier you made it quite clear that you do not share my view on the rapport I thought we had. I never knew you helped me only out of your sense of duty and I regret that I have not freed you of your obligation sooner. If you decided to stay now it has to be out of your free will. I will not have it otherwise.”

“You would accept me still?” asked Ulbar incredulously.

This time Thranduil didn’t manage to restrain himself and groaned loudly. “Are all your people this obstinate or is it only you?” he asked, feeling the familiar throbbing in the temples, meaning he had to calm down if he didn’t want to spend a night nursing migraine.

“I am yours to command, my King,” swore Ulbar, looking at him with such devotion it was almost scary.

Well, if he wanted to become a prophesied Dark hero of the legends he needed to get used to fanaticism, right?

“Come, Ulbar. We have work to do,” the Elvenking ordered, feeling a surge of both apprehension and excitement.

He was going to change the history.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has not been betaed yet.  
> For any mistakes I apologise in advance.

The whole world seemed as if it was holding breath in anticipation of what was to come. Thranduil felt both impatient and nervous at the same time.

He had been studying Dark magic for years now. Even the mechanics of time traveling seemed so familiar to him that he could almost recite the theory of it in his sleep. He had thought of every possible scenario: the spell will fail and nothing will happen; the spell will end in success but he will travel not to his destined time but somewhere (sometime?) else; or he will succeed but will get injured, even mortally, in the process.

Maybe he will remain in his own body, or maybe he will take over his younger counterpart's – he didn't know. The book was not specific on this particular subject. But it mattered not – he couldn't care less for the body his fëa was going to inhabit.

The Elves' souls burned brightly no matter their vessel.

He wondered if the Dark rituals he had been performing for years now had left any stains on his immortal soul. He hoped not, as he himself didn't feel tainted in any way. On the contrary, for the first time in his long life he felt whole, like a glass of water filled to the very brim. He was a complete being, living in the world of both Light and Darkness, as no creature before him.

He had thought long about performing a farewell speech or some last, tearful blessings, but in the end he had decided not to. He had nothing left to say, to anyone.

The first to sacrifice himself was Ulbar, his eyes of a true believer shone brightly as he buried a knife in his own body. In his last breath, he urged: “Into Darkness, my lord. Into Darkness...”, bloody bubbles forming on his slowly cooling lips. Thranduil looked at his dead – servant? Advisor? Companion? And he couldn't help but feel some regret.

There had always been a barrier between him and Ulbar. Firstly, there had been a mutual animosity and lack of trust. Later it had been replaced by fanatical faith and devotion, which had done nothing to breach the gap between them but had widened it even more. Ironically, Thranduil had been closer to befriend an enemy than he had been to befriend a worshiper.

And now, the gap between them was as infinite as the death itself.

Thranduil looked at Tauriel, who looked impossibly old with the aura of serenity surrounding her.

“Remember your promise to me, my Lord,” she whispered as she too ended her own life with one quick, sure stroke. Thranduil caught her falling body and lied it on the ground with gentleness that surprised even himself. Deep inside he felt painful, heart-wrenching sorrow that threatened to overwhelm his whole being but after a short moment of grief it was burned away by the merciless fire of sacrificial magic.

The power burned inside and outside of him, licking at his guts and dancing on his skin. His tattoos seemed hotter than branding iron as they absorbed as much magic as they could. But even with the added power of two sacrificed lives, he still felt chains of time and space around him, choking and suffocating him.

Even now, he wasn't free.

He allowed the heat of his power to burst and consume everything around him. With a heartache so great he thought he wouldn't be able to endure it, he allowed the flames to spread. His woods, his beautiful woods were burning, and his people were burning with them. He heard agonized screams and finally he understood what Ar-Pharazôn must have felt when he had doomed his folk to die.

With the death of every Elf his heart broke anew, and his power grew. He could no longer distinguish between magic and madness because for him, they were one. As the fire spread, his fëa rose high above the ground, no longer chained to the charred and unrecognizable body that had been its vessel for thousands of years.

His unrelenting spirit traveled South-East, seeking, searching. He was drawn to the palace of white stone, painted red in the rays of the setting sun. Inside he saw a man on the throne of skins and bones, whose eyes saw him even though no one else did.

“I salute you, Elvenking” the man said. “I am the Holy Emperor of the Haradwaith Empire, but you... You are the leaf that flows against the current. What need do you have of me?”

Thranduil, lacking lips to articulate his demand, spoke only in his mind:

_Power. I need more power!_

The Emperor looked hesitant for a moment, then nodded: “Very well.” He whispered to his guards and Thranduil could only wait, consumed by thirst of power and unable to satisfy his need.

Soon – but not soon enough for the aching Elvenking's spirit – the guards came back with a brood of women and children in tow. One after another, they fell under Emperor's knife and Thranduil trembled in delight after each sweet death. He felt so full of power that had he still owned a body, he would surely burst.

When the Emperor looked at the Elvenking again, he seemed like he had aged at least a decade. Gone was the proud posture and the strength of spirit. His voice broke as he said: “I gave you the lives of my wives and children, may the Darkness receive them gently. Is this enough for you?”

_More more more more more more,_ Thranduil's spirit chanted, his being clothed now in Shadow and Flame, visible to everyone.

The great ruler of Men seemed to shrink in himself, before he straightened with the steel resolve: “So be it.”

The Emperor fell to his knees and with him, his court. He started to speak, his prayer painfully familiar: “I call to you, Everlasting Darkness. Receive my prayers with grace and allow my lesser blood to be sacrificed for your pleasure. I seek no glory, desire no honours, await no compensation. Take me and break me, twist me and destroy me, until I am no more.” He raised the bloodied knife again, this time towards his own self.

“I call to you, Everlasting Darkness,” intoned the Emperor one last time, his voice hoarse but firm. “Thank you for all the blessings you bestowed upon me, for the pain you brought me, for the strength you drained from me. Now, as my time comes, receive my mortal soul with mercy.”

The knife found its goal and the gathered Men screamed as their beloved Emperor, the Divine Sun and the Blessed Moon of the race of Men, fell to the ground. Many followed him in death, their despair greater then their will of life.

But Thranduil couldn't see it anymore. He fell into a vortex of both space and time, the world changing before his eyes, spinning, endlessly spinning.

He was cold and he was hot.

He died a lot, over and over again, until the pain of dying transformed into the pain of birth.

With a scream, he woke up, heart hammering in his chest.

A young Elf burst into the room, asking: “My prince, what happened?”

And Thranduil cried, because he hadn't been called a prince since his father's death.

_I made it. By everything that is holy, I made it..._


End file.
